Two More Crows For The Wall
by Stuch
Summary: Two captives in the dungeons of King's Landing join Yoren's ill-fated last trip to The Wall. Spoilers from the end of 'A Game of Thrones' onward.
1. Chapter 1

The Hand's Tournament had ended but the brawls, thievery, rapes and drunken street duels carried on regardless. With heightened emotions, not to mention the money and honour that had been up for grabs, the mood on the street was forced to sway between wild revelry and violent chaos. The City Watch was stretched beyond capacity and though criminals went often unpunished, this did not stop the dungeon of King's Landing from swelling beyond their original means. The cells heaved with far more than their fair share of the problems and the already unsanitary conditions were only made worse by the over-crowding. At the day's peak the mess of male voices rang off the solid stone walls and through the barred windows on the doors with a roar that deafened. The master key holder of several floors of cells, Hollander Kane, was at his wit's end and some days would happily have swung the executioners axe himself just to hear his own mind. He sat in thoughtful silence behind his heavy, wooden table, ignored the incessant calls and demands of the prisoners from the ten cells along the corridor, five on either side. He had long learnt the lesson that only ever ended with spittle (or worse) in his face.

"Yoren," he muttered to himself and searched the top of his nearly bald dome for the last tuft of white hair, "How I wish that your horrid stench would reach my nostrils." He then scratched at his solid, white beard and let himself a brief smile at his own private joke. The haggard, old crow was due any day to help relieve the strain by dragging some of the swine off to The Wall for the rest of their miserable lives. His face dropped as there came a heavy rap at the only door to the outside, heavy oak fortified with riveted iron.

"That'll be my mother come to collect my sorry hide!" It had scarcely been humorous the first time the jest had sailed down the corridor, even less so on that occasion. Hollander wearily pushed his ever increasing weight up from the chair and flat-footed over to the entrance. He produced from his dark leather cladding a set of keys and unlocked the great door which groaned loudly on its powerful hinge. It opened outward to reveal the figures of two guardsmen and a new prisoner, hands bound and head lowered. A matted mess of dark hair obscured the face but he was clad in boiled leather and with hint of a light shirt of mail underneath. Each guard held an arm and one carried, Kane could only presume, the prisoner's weapons, a belt with scabbards for both a longsword and dirk. His equipment was scuffed, scratched and generally unremarkable, much like the man's appearance itself.

One guard belched before speaking, "Another sir, the Watch just don't bloody stop bringing these cads down to us. We'll be full by the 'morrow at this rate."

"Bring him in," Kane sighed, "I suppose somebody will have to at last go in with the boy." No older than twelve years, Kane had guessed the age when the boy had been brought sobbing to his cells not four days before, accused of raping a girl of the same age. He had wondered if the boy even knew what rape was, let alone if he were guilty of the crime and so had put him in the cell nearest the door, nearest his watchful eye. It meant moving two other prisoners to an already full cell but he was reminded of his own son and took pity. As Kane turned back toward the table he caught sight of the boy's hands gripped tight around the bars at the window - knuckles strained white - having heard mention of himself.

Heavy boot steps echoed as the three men entered and the prisoners broke into their customary chest-beating from down the long walk of cells. "We'll take good care of you in here! Haha!" and "Don't fall asleep!" were two that rang out above the rest of the shouts. If the latest prisoner heard them, he didn't react and was turned to face Hollander Kane behind the table but still stared intently at his mud-caked boots, the leather rubbed raw at the toes.

The guard tossed the weapons on the table and looked at the new arrival, "He 'ad these on him. You sure you ain't got anythin' else on you?"

There was a shake from side to side of the greasy head and Kane finally got a look at the man's face. A strap of ragged leather went diagonally across his sharp features and obscured the cavernous scar where his left eye had been. The remaining eye had taken up the slack and darted around, took in the details of his new surroundings and was so dark brown to appear almost black. He had four days of thick, black facial growth and his nose looked as though it had been broken several times. Hollander Kane had seen them all before, all colours and creeds, all in varying states of injury and hygiene. This newcomer was nothing special and he went through the motions of dipping a quill into ink to take down the particulars, "Name?" The prisoner remained silent and still between the guards, only the blinking of the remaining eye suggested he were in the realm of the living. Kane merely sighed, he'd been through this game before too and scratched 'Thomas Smythe' onto the rough, stained paper (the name he used for all those who were too drunk to remember or stubborn to speak). "And your crime?" Still not a word.

"Murder, sir. Sliced a man open in a tavern, spilt 'is guts all over. Somat to do with a spilt drink." A guard broke the silence. In a rush to 'search for more ruffians' in the whore houses no doubt, thought Kane. Suddenly putting this man in with the boy no longer seemed entirely wise but it was the lesser of many evils. The prisoners in the closest two cells had heard the man's charge and were already whispering about him or trying their luck with goading words. Hushed at first but growing as quickly as their confidence. To put the man in with them would cause Kane and his guards no end of trouble and strife. Whereas the boy cowered and shook at the latest revelation. It was worth the gamble, it seemed, that the boy would not encourage a repeat of the newcomer's supposed crime. "Put him in with the boy and his weapons away with the rest."

"Boss."

The boy jerked and wriggled as the door was opened as though he could somehow push himself into the wall and away from this new, silent danger. The stranger lifted his hands to reveal open, harmless palms and moved for the opposite corner to show he meant no harm. Hollander Kane cared for peace above all else but the boy's safety came a close second. So he was relieved with the one-eyed murderer's show of good faith. The guard slowly eased the door shut and Kane locked it with a heavy clak. He then returned to the table with a solemn sigh and awaited the next wild intake who would no doubt caused him twice the strife of today's silent newcomer. The two Tom Smythes, both man and boy, were left alone in their self-imposed silence.

There was a melody of sounds in the boy's ears. The rhythmic thump in his chest that threatened to break free of his ribs. The panting breath that filled and emptied his lungs. The scuff of soft leather shoes on the floor as he tried to back ever further away. The man sat away from him the opposite corner seemingly ignoring his frantic reaction, the stranger's head hung low and his elbows rested on drawn up knees, face obscured by the hair. I did nothing to deserve this, thought the boy, to be thrown in the pit with these jackals. The highborn girl had seduced him, lured him to her room and whilst he had been more than willing to partake in his first sin of the flesh with her it wasn't worth this. Worried that somebody would find out she had cried rape and the City Watch tracked him down.

He remembered those few days prior when he had been kicked and prodded down in the depths of King's Landing, weeping and whimpering, much to the delight of the scarred and filthy hands that reached through the doors along each wall. Each hand offered the empty promise of protection, some promised more and worse. It was a relative mercy then the man with the keys had given him a cell to himself, but he knew that every new addition brought in carried with the misfortune of a potential cellmate. And then he had one, not just some petty thief but a killer. Even unarmed the man could throttle him with those enormous, callused hands. Though hours passed in silence without so much as a glance up from the smooth stone and even the other prisoners quietened down and stopped their threats when they got no rise from the one-eyed stranger.

The striped beam from the tiny gap in the wall that passed for a window moved ever across the smooth rock, away from the boy and toward the man. It wasn't until a guard came to the door with water that the stranger stirred at all and pushed himself off the wall to his feet. The boy watched as the torn boots dragged along the worn floor to the heavy oak and took the tankard through the bars. Without turning he drank, beads of light on the tips of his whispers. Much to the boy's surprise, he then turned and offered the rest. All he need do is cross the room and into arm's reach to quench his thirst. The man's single, dark eye held no hint of intent (indeed no hint of anything) but the boy knew the offer would soon be rescinded.

He scrambled forward with enough haste to put him on all fours for a time but was upright again as he reached for the precious water. Still wary of some yet unseen danger, he near snatched the tankard from the man's hand and quickly tipped it to his eager lips. Every last drop. When done he instinctively held it out but found the man gone, back to his corner. Still unsure, the boy went to the door and held the empty vessel out through the bars. He sneaked a glance over one shoulder but the dark-mopped head only stared downward again and the sudden removal of the object from his hand startled him. Unnecessarily exposed, the boy scampered back to his own corner and resumed his watch upon the stranger.

Not that he need have bothered at all, the man scarcely moved. But still the boy had trouble sleeping that night, worried that ghostly hands would sneak around his neck in the darkness and he awoke in the morning scarcely believing he was still alive. Even in his groggy state the boy could tell that something was wrong, the noise must have grown steadily because he remembered dreaming of the yells and shouts of disgusting, wretched men. And they continued even then in the realm of consciousness. It wasn't the usual chest-beating and bellowed, vulgar comments but the noise of mass confusion and questions. Another sound would intermittently drown them all out and the boy had dreamt of it too, dreamt of towers and the tolling of their bells. The sound was not uncommon and regularly throughout the day bells would echo from the heavy walls. What set this morning apart was the duration, the noise was incessant. Constant.

Every bell in the city was singing out from towers and keeps, across the Black Water and out into the Narrow Sea. The boy was as confused as the rest, though the stranger remained in his corner and stared intently at the door. He could hear guards trudging up and down the corridor, rattling their swords against the bars in an attempt to restore order amongst the inmates. To little effect. The man spoke for the first time since he had been brought in the day before and boy heard him above the screams and yells and chimes all around him. The one-eyed stranger didn't look over but said his words to the door, his voice was quiet but firm and harsh as the Northern winter.

"The king is dead. Long live the king."


	2. Chapter 2

There was a beam of sturdy oak that ran the breadth of the cell's door about a foot from the ground. The boy had discovered it gave him enough of a foothold to lift him up to the bars of the window and get a view of the keyholder's table, the main door also but not both at the same time. So he would lean from side to side to get a better picture of events beyond his four walls. His curiosity that day, the day the bells would not stop, nearly cost him an early death. A guard wandered up and down the corridor when the noise of the inmates became as unbearable as the bells, he paused briefly at each door to rattle his steel against the bars. The boy had been balanced by his toes on the beam and listening to the tales of sinful excess between the other two guards at the main door.

It was only at the last moment they the boy saw the point of steel slip silently toward his nose, let go of the bars and fell helplessly to the floor. A far off bell heralded his arrival on the hard stone and he lay there for a moment as pain spread through his legs, back and head. A trickle of crimson appeared in the dirty blonde straw that grew from his scalp and made its way down between his shoulders. He rolled slowly onto grazed elbows and knees to find himself watched by a single eye. Emboldened by his recent brush with death, the boy cracked wise, "Did you see that? He nearly had my-" His sentence ended with a shrill heightening of his voice and a hand went to his mouth to prevent any further offence.

The man's face did not break into either a smile or even anger. Expressionless, he had simply sat and watched the boy's exploits, the balancing and the falls. He hadn't said so much as a single word since his explanation of the bells, that continued on thundering and endless. The end of Robert Baratheon's reign. Joffrey is all but the same age as I am, the boy thought, perhaps he will grant me a pardon for being so young and falsely accused. The stranger's gaze flicked once again as they heard the main door being unlocked (one got so used to the incessant noise of the bells that any other sound could easily be picked out).

The rattling steel long forgotten, the boy was once again teetered on the beam, watching the door for a new arrival. He was not so craven as the day before and almost welcomes the idea of more company, at least the prisoners who threatened him with death actually _spoke_ to him. The door opened for a man with no City Watch escort and whom freely carried his own weapons at his hip. Head to toe the man was clad in black leather and dyed wool. His hair too, both head and chin, was black as truest night and the dirt on his face took his skin halfway there too. Glittering beads dotted his forehead, a man not used to the intense heat of the South. He stood crooked and bent, leaning to one side with a grin on his manky face.

"Kane," both gloved hands held outward in friendship, "There was no need to ring out every tower in the city for my return to your den of iniquity." The words sounded forced and uneven to the man's throaty voice.

Kane spoke without looking up from his quill and ledger, "Eloquence does not sit well with you Yoren and you are heralded by your odour, the bells are entirely unnecessary. But you have never been a gladder sight for my eyes." The two men spoke loudly over the bells. That day, all in King's Landing spoke loudly. The boy listened intently to the most interesting character to come through the door since his arrival.

"Your words cut deep, ya bugger," Yoren lowered his arms and hobbled over to Kane's table, "If you like I could just leave without your latest crop of sinners."

They both laughed heartily at this and Kane eventually responded with, "We both know that to be farce. The Wall always needs and welcomes whatever streaks of shit are desperate enough to go."

"Time was when my arrival almost was treated with bells and celebration, when wandering crows were looked upon with admiration," the crow said wistfully, "But the truth of the Night's Watch isn't honour and valiantry but hardship and duty. People don't like duty these days and they have enough hardships as it is." He spat and Kane tutted.

"The floor gets enough bodily messes from the prisoners without yours getting added to the mix, crow."

Yoren simply laughed, "Let's get on with it then. Which of these bastards' heads or balls are for the chop?"

Kane rose unsteadily to his feet and fumbled with the iron ring of keys, "One of both in the first cell, both will happily spend their lives out in the ice and snow I think."

The crow scoffed, "You'd be surprised how many take their chances with the headsman's block." A glove rubbed against his beard. Shouts rolled down the corridor in agreement from the other cells and the boy let himself drop down from the door as Kane approached, rusty key in gnarled hand. He backed away to find the man on his feet, slumped lazily against one shoulder and picking at his fingernails. The door was unlocked and heaved open.

"Boy came in five days ago. Rape or so they say and the gentleman came in yesterday, for killing a man. Quiet as mice the both of them." Kane moved aside and Yoren stepped into the cell. The bells tolled as he glanced at the boy for no longer than a moment before he stared at the man, whose face had broken into a grin as wide as the crow's.

"Well, well, well," Yoren chuckled, "Life across the Narrow Sea got borin' so soon?" The man, the one-eyed stranger, who had been silent and emotionless since appearing in the dungeon burst suddenly into jovial life at the sight of this 'black brother' and his hands gestured lightly as he spoke.

"How long? Four, five years? It seems an age since were last drank together in King's Landing, an age since I even set foot on this continent of seemingly endless political strife." A bell rang as he finished, as if on cue and they moved together with a hearty handshake, "How goes life on the edge of _civilised _Westeros?"

"The snows are deeper each time you pass Winterfell and Stark's words hold truer now than ever," Yoren suddenly turned more solemn, "And all the fat lords of the South deem to give me are the dregs of their houses and the shit from their dungeons. We need men at the Wall now more than ever."

"And today's new king will have little interest in such matters," the man cocked a leg to the sole of one boot, "No doubt he will have his own tournament to celebrate his own coronation." The boy's hopes of reprieve and mercy from the young king slipped away from him.

Yoren only cemented these new fears, "Joffrey will probably throw the boy here into the melee for some kind of mad jest." They both looked over at him and gave a little laugh. The boy's face turned sullen, he messed with his own hair and sucked his bottom lip. Yoren kept his attention of the skinny, blonde runt, "So boy, Kane tells me you're a cold-hearted raper of innocent, young maidens?" The straw hair flapped from side to side, his eyes fixed to the smelly old crow. "I didn't believe it to look at you, more's the like that she forced you. Then called her Father when she didn't have herself the time she hoped!" He laughed and revealed fast-yellowing teeth. "Kane, leave me a while with my friend here. There is catchin' up needs done." The key holder obliged but locked the door behind him all the same. The two men talked whilst the boy tried hard to hide his shame. It wasn't like that, he assured himself, wasn't like that at all.

"Old friend or no," Yoren coughed up something wretched and spat it to the stone, "I can't treat you special. It's the wall or the chopping block, same as all the rest." The stranger's hand went instinctively to his furry throat and he shrugged.

"Something tells me that I might have something worse in store," he mused, "I can see Joffrey becoming another Aerys, more than easily. Young kings..."

"I spoke with Lord Stark some days back," Yoren looked out of the tiny window, "I would not care to be in his boots. No doubt Robert left him some new _gift_ of privileged office."

"A boy of summer as a king of winter. Robert would have sense to leave a Stark in his stead."

"Indeed. 'Tis shit for all concerned." They both spat at this. Realising that his input was not required the boy sat himself down cross-legged and traced lines in the stone with a finger, chin resting in the palm of his free hand which in turn rest on one knee. Yoren continued and attempted to steer the talk in a more lively direction, "How far did you get? The Dothraki Sea?"

"I left King's Landing for Pentos and then rode west across the grass sea to Vaes Dotherak," the man painted a picture with his hands, "Got into a duel with a Dothraki over my horse in the long grass and relieved him of his arms for his effort. Two more heard the tale of this, tried and failed the both of them. My tale ended there as far as the horse lords were concerned and my journey remained uneventful until I went hard south to Tolos and Oros, working briefly as a sellsword. I lost my eye in a drunken bet having lost a fair duel to some heinous Free City lord using an Unsullied as his champion, I was told that an eye - rather than my life - would be my forfeit." He could see Yoren was already tiring of his tall tale.

"How much of that is true? Don't be pulling your charlatanism with me," he picked something out of his teeth and flicked off to a corner.

"Most," with a wide grin.

"All I am wondering is how you find yourself in the dungeons of King's Landing?"

"Some bugger spilt my drink!" the man shouted, incredulous, "I just get back onto Westeros, after a horrible sail around the wrong side of the Stepstones. All I want is some decent southern ale and this eunuch knocks the tankard from my hand!"

"Now _this_ I can believe," Yoren produced some strips of salted beef from a pouch at his hip and offers, was declined by the man and the boy didn't want to accept anything thing from this twisted, gnarled crow, "Did you at least offer him the chance o' an apology?"

"Of course," the man took care of an itch on one cheek, "When he declined that I sliced him open. Should see a man trying to put his guts back in, a jolly sight to say the least." He did an impression and Yoren nearly lost his mouthful of beef to laughter. Eventually though, talk returned to the matter at hand and the man accepted his fate.

"How long before we leave?" he said resignedly, "I want to wet myself in a woman one last time before I freeze my dick off." The boy was still thrown by such talk and looked up at him. "You want to come to?" His face looked back down at the floor and Yoren openly laughed at him.

"Ah, he can just go find himself some other young daughter of a lord and get himself thrown back here again. I'll pick him up afterwards." Did he want to spend the rest of his life amongst men like this? The boy wondered it was worth it, to forsake the life he knew for this complete unknown future in the cold and snow.

The man saw his doubt and reminded him offhandedly, "It's either the Wall or they cut off your balls." Which settled it once and for all. Would he get to see his mother one last time? Those who called him friend? Be able to see the girl who caused this? Who indirectly forced him to take an oath of celibacy. It was the most unfair of things to happen to a boy his age and the single choice he had in the matter was no real choice at all.

Yoren put a hand on the man's shoulder, "It'll be good to have another Snow on the wall, another northern bastard." The air turned as cold as the man's face as he crawled back inside himself and Yoren realised the mistake he had made. "Friend, I am sorry. Didn't mean no offence by it, you have long outgrown your name." The boy was puzzled by this, not knowing what had just happened between the two old friends.

Snow dug a hand into his greasy hair and let out a long sigh, "Forced back to the one place I didn't want to revisit. Wait... another?"

"Ned Stark's bastard reached the Wall not long before I left. Brought a bloody Lannister with him! Of all things! The Imp!" Yoren's eyes were wide with the news, "Jon Snow went to wall of his free will, drunk on the lies of honour they tell in the North."

"If there were any honour left up there, Ned would walk the ruddy thing himself," the man spat again and took up Yoren's offer of a strip of salted beef. And the bells would not stop.


	3. Chapter 3

They waited outside Kings Landing, in a small encampment some way from the Old Gate at the beginnings of the Kingsroad. A winding path that went from the home of the Iron Throne itself, snaked its way up through Westeros and was eventually halted only by the Wall at Castle Black. The boy knew this much already from the maps his father had collected, not that he had ever been there to show them to him. They were one of the few memories of the man that his mother had ever permitted to remain in their home. The boy had once spent hours planning his own knightly quests across the continent; South to Dorne and then zagging his way northward, through Stormsend, Casterly Rock and past The Neck. Up into the cold, perhaps eventually as far as the Wall, perhaps not. But what choice was there now? It was the Wall, for a certainty. I should be pleased for the adventure, he thought, what other chance would I have ever gotten to see Westeros?

Smallfolk of King's Landing often lived out their entire, miserable lives never seeing outside of the city walls. But was the cost of this opportunity? The boy would now take on a vow of celibacy and duty for the rest of his days. He sat cross-legged in the dirt as the other youngsters ran amok and fought for a place in their newly formed hierarchy. The very worst of the new 'conscripts' were in chains, they called for mercy and freedom (although one could do nothing but hiss) with their mouths, but their eyes, their eyes held the truth of their intents. Their freedom would be a freedom to do ill, to commit unspeakable acts to any and all they came across. Oathbreakers before they said any words to turn their back on. The boy didn't believe duty and hardship would do anything for such monsters. After all, what did a man with no nose or no tongue have to lose? The older men Yoren deemed safe enough, including 'Snow' with whom he had shared a cell, gathered in a loose group around a small fire and shared their tales.

They all waited for Yoren's return. He had appeared and taken them like the Lord of Death, their crimes were varied and numerous but the punishment was the same for each; a life spent in ice and snow. No sooner had the crow started them on the road North than he had stopped them again to await their punishment as he skulked off on a last minute errand. "The Wall will still be there tomorrow," he had shouted over his shoulder as the men yelled their disapproval.

The bells had stopped but the silence deafened almost as much. And although the tolling had ended, the rumours of Robert's demise did not and were as many as they were foolish; that he did the deed by his own hand whilst drunk, that he was dead by his own Hand was more common as news of Lord Stark's supposed treachery spread. His wife Cersei? His brother-in-law and loyal Kingsguard, Jaime? It certainly wouldn't have been the first time the Kingslayer had broken his greatest of oaths. Gossip and hearsay all of it, the boy heard it all amongst those who passed by on the Kingsroad.

Bored or lonely, he got to his feet and wandered over to where Snow and others were gathered. There had just been the punchline to some crude, wretched and long-winded jest and all were laughing but stopped as he approached. A jest at my expense, he thought, why else would they stop? "What's the matter? The other boys don't like to fraternise with rapers?" one of the men piped up. It was a strange thing to say since half of the boys were there for that very reason, but it roused smiles from the other men all the same.

The boy ignored the jibe and looked to Snow, "Where has Yoren gone?"

One-eyed Snow looked up at him, "A message came that he was to wait a little longer. Another bastard came too, the big lad the others don't dare to touch." The Bull was the boy he spoke of (Boy? He was as near a man as could be) the title was taken up so quickly amongst the rest that they never learned his actual name.

"But Yoren spoke to you before he left..."

"And if I thought you should know, I would tell you. Now bugger off," Snow grunted and stared the boy down until he turned tail and stumbled off again. I like it better when he didn't speak to me at all, he thought and felt his face turn red. The others around the small fire, unsightly, unshaven and with the eyes of dead men let out hollow laughter at him. They were in this together and yet not, groups and rifts had formed with the latter appearing around the boys on all sides. Alone again, shunned by man and boy alike, he walked.

He hadn't been mindful of his path and found himself by the wagons with the men in chains, men of grotesque appearance and worse thoughts. "All alone boy?" the man with no nose whispered, "We could be good friends to you, if you do right by us. And don't let his name fool you, Biter here is very good with the young ones." There was a hiss and a flash of teeth from the man in shackles next to him. The third restrained captive only laughed.

The boy gave them a wide circle and continued on away from the makeshift camp, he passed wagons bound for and from the city. In his ears was the sound of a small market area, the shouting of prices and the whispers of gossip. The world carried on much the same as it had the day before, if it weren't for the rumours you could scarce believe that Robert wasn't still drunkenly sprawled on the Iron Throne.

"With such a boy on the throne, it's the mother who rules."

"Casterly Rock owned us all long before yesterday, since the Kingslayer earned his name."

"I 'ear the Northlord will be missin' his 'ead come this night."

"He went mad with the heat of the south and stabbed his King in a fever."

"Perhaps he will send Stark to the wall, that would be the best outcome."

"Boy kings know nothing of mercy."

So readily the smallfolk took up any news of the highborn. The legitimacy of news mattered little and more often than not, the more salacious the higher the likelihood of being held as true. How they cared so much of the comings and goings of those who wouldn't look down as them twice from atop their valiant steed was beyond the boy's understanding. Soon the lords would arrive to swear fealty and the wretches who swarmed outside the gates would have a never ending procession of noble blood to whisper and titter of. For all his newfound dislike of the Night's Watch, which in his state of youth was more about rebelling against that which had been ordered to do, at least they separated themselves from these affairs of the realm. The attentions of the Black Brothers faced ever northward, where gossip was of giants and ghosts. Where every tournament was a battle and the only prize was a longer life in the cold.

Kings and knights were held in no higher esteem than a petty thief, tales of princesses and romance held no sway on cold hearts. The South is soft, the boy realised, and has made me grow soft with it. The North would make a man of him but The Watch would bar from him the pleasures that come with manhood. His mind always came back to this unfair trade, to the warmth of the girl who had suddenly turned so cold to his touch. What had I done, he wondered and sat himself once more on the sparse grass that straddled the Kingsroad, to make her call out for help? These were ill thoughts with no simple reply, save the idea that is was all some whore's trick. Which whilst seeming no fair answer was the only one he had.

He dug his fingertips into the dirt and clenched a fist of crumbling mud so that it seemed to pop between his fingers, his other hand ran through his strawlike hair. His gut growled with hungry discontent and he looked around for the camp once more, a stone's throw away he found that Snow stared directly at him. The boy heaved himself to his feet and dawdled back being watched intently by a single eye with every step. The man opened his mouth to speak quietly when the boy was within earshot but were both suddenly distracted by two figures who walked out from Kingslanding.

One was Yoren, their guide and escort to the rest of their lives. Still dressed in too many layers for the heat but wary of leaving his belongings with this band of convicted criminals. The other was a boy, smaller even than the scrawny blonde runt stood beside Snow, whom Yoren near-dragged by the scruff of the neck. He struggled to work free and had the red puffy eyes of having recently sobbed. His dark hair was just tufts and long stubble, his skin filthy and was skinny as a rake. Couldn't have seen nine namedays and with such girlish features.

Snow was the only man to question the newcomer, what was one more after all? "I remember him being a good bit taller than that. But the eyes are there."

Yoren spat and struggled to keep a grip on the slippery eel of a boy, "You have no idea."


	4. Chapter 4

The latest scrawny addition paid the boy no more attention than anybody else and instead took his place with the other young criminals. Still there was something not quite right about him, the way the new boy moved and spoke, he simply tried too hard. Arry he called himself and carried with him a rapier-thin blade that he held onto so tight that it might as well have been his arm itself. As the smallest by quite some way, Arry was constantly put upon by the other boys until he snapped soon into the journey and cracked one of the bullies across the face with a practice sword. Yoren then dragged him off and Arry came back, hands comforting what could only have been tender thigh meat and with red, puffy eyes. What could have been so special about this one? The boy sometimes wished to be bullied if only not to be ignored, but sometimes being ignored has its advantages. Including the discovery of Arry's secret.

War was rife in the Riverlands to the north west, word of a bannerless horde moving across the lands of lords with fire, death and leaving scores of bastards in their wake. The Kingsroad had always been dangerous territory, a haven for mummers and thieves, but with a group of their size and membership it was as safe as any other route and made for far easier going. It was well known (or it was the rumour spoken on the most tongues) that this 'bannerless' collection of steel was the work of Tywin Lanniester setting loose the Mountain, one Ser Gregor Clegane, upon the smallfolk. Their first stop was in a village some two days north of Kings Landing, the boy never learnt its name nor had any memory of their whereabouts from his father's maps. There were too many of them - some thirty or so - for the single inn of the village but they were offered a spitted hog in accordance with Yoren's status (or notoriety). "Good to know there are still those who know what the crows do for them," the wanderer had seemed almost gracious to their hosts, a plump, ageing couple who owned the inn.

The slept outside under a cloudless sky and bathed in an ominous pink light. A great red arc traced the sky behind the newly revealed comet. No-one seemed to know for sure what it was or what it meant, but when had that ever stopped people from pretending that they did? The new boy, Arry, stared the most intently at it as though he knew exactly what it was. He would not speak this truth though and the tears that shone in his eyes suggested some private grief in the meaning.

Yoren and Snow sat together and away from the rest, sharing ale and the choice cuts from the pig. What words do they share, the boy thought, that require such secrecy? Even away from the fire that had been set up for the pig, their weapons were and armour were picked out by the flames and their greasy, unkempt hair carried a slimy sheen. The boy also noticed that they never seemed to talk the way that the others did. The men closer to the fire told tales of sin and desire, conquests of steel, of flesh and the worst of them managed to intertwine the two. Southern men of plenty and warmth. Snow and Yoren talked of the hard and the cold, tales of the North and the Wall. The others spoke as though summer would last forever and those two seemed to know better. Hard times were coming for all. The boy wanted to hear more of Snow, who seemed so guarded of his past and lineage even in Yoren's private company. If nobody would talk to him, he would at least learn about those he travelled with by the ignoble art of dropping eaves.

The younger the speaker, the less likely they were to put up with his listening in. Hot Pie, a podgy young lad with hair like the boy's, had thrown pebbles and refused to continue his tale until the boy had continued on (Arry had said nothing). Others simply stopped talking as he approached and more still either did not notice him or ignored him entirely. On that occasion, he had managed to approach Snow and Yoren unawares and sat amongst some shrubbery, listening and watching the whole group from afar. Night fell and the lights in the village evaporated.

"I stop there anyway," Yoren spoke nary above a whisper, "But I will have more reason now."

"No doubt the Lady Catelyn will reward you for it," Snow replied in his own hushed tone and both men faced away from the boy, toward the fire.

"She ain't there," Yoren picked a handful of grass and rubbed his hand free of it, "Last I saw of her she was arresting the Imp of Casterly Rock." The boy knew of the Imp and had even caught sight of him once in the city, waddling to his horse with a scowl across his enormous brow.

There came no small amount of surprise in Snow's reply, "That is news, I had heard the whispers when I landed but thought it nothing but the tales of smallfolk."

"I saw it. The Imp is likeable enough, drank with him at the Wall and travelled that far back south with him. But we were not friendly enough that I would jump to his aid against a Stark. The crow does join the fight between the lion and the wolf but instead waits to see the outcome, no matter how wretched the lion." Was this part of Lord Stark's treachery? That his wife was to make a hostage of the Imp? The boy realised himself, aching to hear the gossip like some poor, pockmarked fool of a mummer. Had this been a tale of smallfolk he would not have paid it any heed and yet he continued to soak up every word.

"Does she know yet?" Know what?

"Ravens fly far quicker than this crow walks, she'll know soon." Know _what_?

"Robb is oldest," Snow took a swig of ale.

"He is and more his father's son than ever, you should have seen the welcome he gave Tyrion Lannister," Yoren took a bite from an only slightly rotten apple, "Word is he marched south with all the steel of the North. No doubt with your father amongst them." Snow did not reply to this final point although the boy willed him to answer with all his being. He wanted to know Snow's real name if only out of curiosity. Yoren eventually filled the silence, "We're both old friends here. You can't deny that half of your blood even if he would." The boy knew that the name Snow meant a 'bastard of the North' just as every other kingdom of the realm had its own.

Snow changed the subject, "So Ned Stark won't be going the Wall?"

Yoren's voice turned grim following a stifled belch, "His head is bound for some wall, on the Red Keep no doubt. No, Lord Stark was the first chance for the boy king to stretch his regal will."

"A cleaner end than his father." A drink to Rickard from them both.

"And his brother." Another swig for Brandon.

"A mercy that this young king hasn't yet been touched by the desire for flame." The traitor is dead, the boy mused, perhaps the realm will settle down and the Lanniesters will be able to keep the peace. But Yoren mentioned Robb Stark, new Lord of Winterfell, who now marched south with an army upon hearing of his father's imprisonment. How would he react to news of his execution?

Snow continued, "And what of the girl then? Is Winterfell still best?" Girl? There were only boys and men in the group, there was no place for women at the Wall.

Yoren scratched at his beard, "Only a cripple and a toddler left up there now is true, but it'll be a damn sight safer for her than here." Were they speaking of Arry? It's true he was smaller and scrawnier than the others, but a girl? It would explain why he disappeared so often but what difference does it make? Or was this a chance to make a friend? Confide in her that he knew the secret and she would have no choice but to talk to him. A friend through blackmail is better than no friend at all, the boy supposed.

After a pause Snow spoke a little louder, "It's a damn shame. Lord Stark would have a made a fine addition to the Wall."

Yoren replied, "Nothing but agreement here. A man like that could have made all the difference in the world." The boy left them to their talk and made a wide circle back to camp so as not to arouse their suspicions. His stomach growled and approached the remains of the pig before noticing that Arry was not around.

"He went off on his own," Hot Pie licked greasy fingers, "That way, now bugger off." The boy followed the orphan's podgy finger and into the trees once more, following a fresh path past broken twigs and vague footprints in the grass. He caught sight of Arry some way off, looking around his- herself. He stopped at a tree and watched around it with one peering eye as she crouched behind some bushes, her head still in view. She looked around her constantly but the boy was far enough away to draw no attention. He was reminded of the highborn girl whom had called her father on him, the way he had used to spy on her from the street below. Why stand in the window if not to be seen? Was this girl highborn too? They hadn't said as much but was she herself a Stark? Why else go to so much trouble to take her to Winterfell?

Does she want me to see? The boy's mind raced back to the girl in Kings Landing and her teasing of him, her good-natured taunting. The way she had invited him into her bed and then called her father before either of them had the chance to finish. This young, highborn girl relieving herself in the woods would probably do the same. Play with his heart and make a fool of him. Just a peek, he thought, I'll just walk over and take a peek. Maybe she would like that, all highborn girls were the same. He moved from the tree and whispered to himself, "Just a peek."

His hands hadn't even slipped halfway around the rough bark when a dirk was at his throat and a stench filled his nostrils, "Well, well. The boy belongs amongst the rapers and criminals after all." The cold steel stopped him from turning but he knew from the smell and the voice that it was Yoren.

"I- I- I- was just going to.." the boy said in a whispered squeal.

"He isn't for you," Yoren dragged back around the other side of the tree and held him against it, blade still against the boy's soft skin, "Imagine what the others would say if they found out you enjoy watching other boys piss."

"But she's a.." The dirk dug in just a little deeper.

"All I see is a boy going for a shit in the woods and you watching him," Yoren leaned in close, his foul breath mixed with the stench of the boy's fear, "And should I hear that you have been saying anything different, I could always just say you fell foul of a wolf or gut you myself. If he _were_ a highborn girl, he'd be worth one hundred of you." Yoren's eyes said he spoke the truth and that this was no idle threat. The boy had wet himself and could feel it trickle inside his breeches, Yoren simply laughed at him.

"But.."

"You have no friends here, boy," Yoren sheathed his dirk and headed back to camp, "Never forget that."


End file.
